Watercolor and ink, 8 x 11 1/2


FDR Report Cover Page

My high school U.S. history teacher, Mr. Costello assigned the class a report. I ended up doing mine on President Franklin Roosevelt.

Evidently, Mr. Costello wasn’t impressed with my artwork. He wrote over it, commenting on everything from content, to capitals, sentence structure and grammar.

For three nights in the Spring of 1977, I banged out eleven pages of report on an old broke-down manual typewriter I’d been using since I was at least nine-years-old. Sometimes I miss the clickety-clack and ding of the obsolete.

While I tossed the report away in a fit of anger because of the way he graded it, I kept the cover page anyway, because I thought that it was pretty good. Hell, I still think it’s pretty good.

Old Writings, New Discoveries and OMG!

While digging around in our attic, sorting out my camping gear, I discovered a shit-load of poems I wrote between September 2001 and February 2003. A lot of that time, I spent off the grid, running from myself and eventually addressing life’s problems.

There are at least 500 pages that I now need to deal with. Questions include do I even wanna post them?  And if I post them, should I go for broke and post them all or should I be selective? Finally, how do I post them; type each out or do I simply scan them and then post them?


The Gardener Came Today

Robbie Cheadle is the woman behind the website, ‘Roberta Writes.’ She recently penned a flash-fiction story titled, “Lavender not Forever,” that I found kinda erotic, so added to it, only this time from the gardener’s point of view…

John watched as the woman, either mad with joy, anger, perhaps both, ripped her grandmother’s lavender plants from their mooring. As the gardener, John had spent nearly 20-years caring for the old woman’s plants and upon seeing Nettie in her state of rage, he wanted to be angry with the granddaughter.

Instead, he explored Nettie’s features, her standing there in her newly inherited garden, skirt hiked high, panties slightly showing, satin blouse clinging to her sweat-soaked breasts.  It was then that he realized that the more he saw, the more he thought himself a bumblebee, lengthy proboscis searching Nettie’s nectar.